


every pizza is a personal pizza if you believe in yourself

by jedusaur



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Hawkguy, M/M, Pizza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 02:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: "I can explain," says the delivery guy, dripping blood onto Bruce's pizza.





	every pizza is a personal pizza if you believe in yourself

"I can explain," says the delivery guy, dripping blood onto Bruce's pizza.

Well. Most of Bruce's pizza. There are a few slices missing, which Bruce can clearly see because half of the lid is torn off. There's a dark green stain along the jagged edge of the cardboard, like whatever ripped it was covered in slime. Actually, there's some of whatever it is on the pizza, too. At first glance it looked like pesto drizzle, but no. Pesto doesn't burn a canyon into the surface of the cheese.

"I, uh," says Bruce. He stares at the pizza. "I... didn't order olives."

The delivery guy immediately sets about picking all the olives off the pizza with his incredibly filthy bare hands. Bruce watches him, fascinated, for the thirty seconds it takes before the freshly olive-free pizza is proffered once more.

He tips twenty percent. The guy looks like he's had a rough night.

*

The next time Bruce orders pizza, it shows up seven hours late. The knock comes just past three AM, when Bruce is right on the verge of conquering his insomnia. He groans in frustrated resignation and shuffles to the door in his sweatpants and undershirt.

"I made sure there weren't any olives," the delivery guy greets him. He looks like he's about to fall over from exhaustion.

Bruce takes the pizza box. It's cold. Not as in no-longer-hot, as in... refrigerated. He lifts the lid and peeks inside. No unanticipated fluids this time, at least.

"I called GrubHub," he says. "They said it was registered as delivered."

The guy grimaces. "Yeah. I was being held at gunpoint, I didn't have much of a choice."

Bruce isn't sure how to react to that. "I had Triscuits for dinner," he says instead. The pizza smells really good.

The delivery guy sags against the apartment door opposite Bruce's with a thump.

"You, uh... want to come in and sit down a minute?" Bruce steps back from the doorway, gesturing to his living room. The guy squints past him, then heaves himself away from the door and more-or-less divebombs Bruce's couch.

Bruce perches on the ottoman and takes a tentative nibble of pizza. The guy doesn't move.

"What's your name?" Bruce asks. He takes a bigger bite. It's the first time he's actually eaten pizza from this place. The sauce is excellent.

"Crimph," the guy mumbles into the cushion.

"Kim?" Bruce tries.

"Crimph."

"...Chris?"

The guy wrenches himself to the side a couple times, finally rolling over on his fourth try. "Clint."

Bruce holds out a fresh slice of pizza with the hand he isn't using to stuff himself. Clint accepts it, drops it on his chest, and falls asleep.

"Huh," says Bruce. He finishes his slice. Clint doesn't move a muscle. Bruce puts the rest of the pizza in the fridge and goes back to bed.

In the morning, the fridge contains significantly less pizza and the ledge of counter in front of the kitchen sink is covered in bits of crust. Clint is nowhere to be seen, and the door and all the windows are locked from the inside.

*

The next time Bruce orders pizza, it shows up in four minutes, piping hot and smelling amazing. There are practically cartoon wavy lines emanating from it. And the person holding it is not Clint.

"You're Bruce Banner," she says, sounding a lot more casual than most people do when they say that.

"Uh," says Bruce, and leaves it at that, hoping she will too.

"That makes this _hilarious_ ," she says. She doesn't look like she's ever laughed in her life.

"Where's the regular guy?" Bruce deflects. He doesn't think he wants to know what it is she finds hilarious.

"He got fired," she says.

Bruce frowns. "Was it because I called GrubHub on him?" 

She shrugs. "Probably. He gets fired about once a month. He always squirms his way back onto the schedule somehow, try back in a couple days."

The pizza is fantastic. Still, Bruce kind of liked it better cold.

*

The next time Bruce orders pizza, he opens his door to a dog with a pizza carrier strapped to its back.

Bruce blinks. The dog stares up at him. Clearly it's his move. Cautiously, Bruce leans down to unzip the carrier.

"Damn it, Lucky, I told you not to run ahead," Clint's voice echoes from the stairwell. He hurtles down the hall, ricocheting off the walls like a bowling ball zigzagging between bumpers. "Sorry, he's new to this business."

"I think he's better at it than you are," says Bruce. He pulls out his pizza and zips the carrier back up.

"True, very true," says Clint. He scratches the dog's head. "Good _job_ , buddy." He gets down on his knees to scratch with both hands.

Bruce grins, digging in his pocket for his wallet. "Looks like you're a good team."

Clint is halfway to rolling around on the floor of the hall when he realizes what Bruce is holding out to him and pauses. "Dude," he says. "You remember when I crashed on your couch and stole your food? And now you're tipping me... what is that, fifty percent?"

"I believe in tipping well," says Bruce. "And you didn't give me a chance last time."

"Because I was crashing on your couch and stealing your food," Clint repeats, but he takes the ten-dollar bill.

"Well, it's for Lucky, not you." Bruce opens the box and starts chewing on a slice.

"You hear that, bud?" Clint ruffles Lucky's neck fur. "We're goin' to Petco! What are you gonna get, huh?" He starts wandering down the hall, trying to walk and pet the dog at the same time. "New chew toy? Some Milk Bones? I saw you eyeing that guinea pig last time we were there, you wanna get yourself a little pal? Let's just see what kind of mood you're in when we get there..."

Bruce eats three slices of pizza. Maybe it's not actually better cold.

*

"I can explain," says Clint, holding out a suspiciously light-looking pizza box.

Bruce takes it. It's empty. He sighs. "Can you, though?"

Clint sort of droops. "Not really."

"What happened to your eye?" Bruce peers at him.

"Um," says Clint. "It'll be fine. I just need to wash it out when I get home."

The eye looks unnaturally red, and Clint's cheek beneath it is wet. "You want to use my sink?" Bruce offers.

Clint shakes his head. "It needs milk."

Bruce doesn't have any milk. "Would ice cream work?"

Clint thinks about it. "Eh. Worth a shot."

Ten minutes later, the eye looks slightly less terrifying and Clint is falling asleep on the couch again, this time on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce is still holding the empty pizza box. He tips the lid open curiously. It doesn't smell like pizza. There's not even any grease on the corrugated white lining in the bottom.

He adjusts position so Clint's neck won't get a crick and settles in.

*

A week later, Bruce walks into his kitchen to find Clint sitting at the table with a pizza box in front of him.

Bruce stops short. "I didn't order any pizza," he says, because he's not sure what else to say.

"It's a romantic gesture," says Clint. "I'm not great at coming up with those and you don't seem like you'd be great at picking up on them, so I'm just letting you know."

"Oh," says Bruce. "Yeah, I wouldn't have caught that. How did you get in?"

"When a person gestures romantically, you're supposed to respond," Clint complains. "You can't just leave me hanging here."

"Sorry," says Bruce. "I'm not really up on the etiquette of affectionate breaking-and-entering."

"It's okay," says Clint magnanimously. "So, you want to make out or nah?"

Bruce waits just long enough to make the fake bravado crumple into anxiety before he says, "Yes, I would like to make out."

"Oh, good," says Clint, and pounces on him.

After a minute, Bruce pulls back and says, "You ate my romantic gesture, didn't you."

"Little bit," says Clint. "One slice, okay, I had one slice of your romantic gesture. I had to build up my energy after dodging all those lasers last night."

"You're the worst deliverer of pizza in New York City," Bruce says, and goes back for more.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no clue what happens if you try to soothe a pepper spray burn with melted ice cream. Probably don't.


End file.
